Ghosts of Frozen Memories
by Dark Austral
Summary: In everyone's life, there are things they regret and wish they can take back. They are haunted by their mistakes and their choices, even those made in love. AU to season 5, spoilers to The End and Swan Song (FYI: Dean-Cas pairing and character death)


**Warning:** character deaths, AU to the end of Season 5**  
**

**A.N: **This idea, actually a particular scene that occurs in this fic, came to me one night and wouldn't let go till I wrote the rest of the story. I have to give credit to Ben Edlund as well. In the commentary of "The End," Ben Edlund thought about making Cas insane by making him play with a dead cockroach. I wanted to play with that and wove it in here. Also bold italic is set in the future, regular font is the present and italic is in the past.

_**Ghosts of Frozen Memories**_

**_Ross is the first, then Tucker over in Arkansas followed by West, Smiths and Jackson. Stories of a flickering dark-haired spirit appearing to help hunters spread like wildfire. Overtime, descriptions surface as the ghost becomes more pronounced. He's barefoot, they say, one hand coated in blood while the other is clean and smooth. There's a stab wound dead center in his chest, a bright contrast to the white skin and scruffy beard. Nothing though can compare to the piercing blue eyes that haunt each hunter's mind._**

**_At first, a few hunters try to kill it. It's a ghost they say, a monster that needs to be taken out. But nothing works. Iron makes it vanish after a few rounds. Salt only makes the ghost burn but not hold it back. And there is no personal information to get an ID or bones to burn. Despite the attacks, the ghost just continues to appear when a hunter cries out for help, trying to say something in those first few minutes, when his eyes are full of reckless hope before draining into bitter determination. Only then does a gruff, drained voice break the veil, spilling ancient secrets that have been lost in the Apocalypse. With a broken posture afterwards, the spirit vanishes without a word till the next hunter calls for his aid._**

**_It doesn't take long for the community to label the ghost a patron saint for Hunters. No one bothers to ponder what the ghost mutters or why he still walks the Earth without anything tying him down. Instead, they learn to give out a tiny prayer of good luck before and after each hunt in his name of Saint, because he does look like one from the old paintings: all too delicate and regal to be anything but a saint or even an angel._**

**_The caution of before dissipates as the newer generation of Hunters, more open and accepted in society, carry out their hunts to fight the supernatural creatures. Especially now, in a time where there is an increase of monsters changing their habits. It makes for dangerous times and the need to have such a willing source of information is too great. They begin to take advantage of the Saint._**

**_An advantage that backfires slowly. It takes the incident of a hunter dying while his partner screams out a prayer, for the rest of them to truly look at their Saint. At how the despair and bitterness chips away at the ghost, till the only time he moves his lips is to grind out information in the briefest of words, blue eyes lost till a hunter's curse snaps them into focus. How shoulders' slumping in the faded AC/DC shirt and jeans, the pale man seems to grow darker. That shade of blinding light that used to surround his frame whispering away like fallen feathers._**

**_The Saint becomes a ghost of himself, those haunted eyes staring endlessly at each new hunter with contempt instead of the old hope. The ghost knows he's being used but there is nothing he can do about it. It's as if he's bound himself to the hunter community, only able to ignore their prayers, false or not, for so long. Deep inside though, a slow burning rage crackles out from a tiny seed of Grace. For each time he appears, hunters swear the temperature plummets to burning coldness. It's nothing new when handling ghosts. The worrying comes in with the cracking of glass, the rustling of non-existent leaves and the perfect circle of ice from where he stands. It's an arctic reminder for hunters to remember that this ghost is anything but human in origin._**

_**For spelled out in the circle of ice, between frost bitten floor boards or blades of grass are two Enochian words spelling out:** **Tell Dean.**_

* * *

Scrap. Scrap. Scrap. Flutter of cloth. Scrap. Scrap. Scrap.

Flutter of cloth against silver. The blade reflects tired green eyes as it's brought up to the light, a calloused thumb running over its edge, testing for sharpness. Movements are precise and graceful, but the quickness is gone.

The radio crackles in the background, the only thing functioning in this wasteland. A nervous voice is muttering through, saying words like haven, hope, cities that have fallen, signs and Camp Chitaqua.

It might not be the same step by step dance routine, but the finale is just like the others. The world's ending as Dean sits on an empty bed, sharpening his blade while ice and fire melt away civilization.

* * *

_It's a farmer's machine, the John Deere green tractor rolling along in the dull, gray afternoon that holds him up. Its massive tires take up half the road. There's a deep ditch on both sides and semi-trucks barreling by. Then finally, there's the tiniest entrance and he whips past the tractor, just nicking by when another car zoomed from the other direction._

_It was only a few seconds, maybe just a handful of minutes. Less then five for sure, maybe three but Dean can't remember. All he remembers is seeing Michael's—or is it Adam's—body lying on the wet soaked ground of Skull Cemetery. Wide ashen wings reach all the way up the hill, past the Impala. There's a haunting beauty of Heaven's most powerful angel and Dean's little brother lying still, arms stretched out, palms facing skywards. Pale blue eyes stare blankly up. Rainy mist clumped with ash make it seem as if tears are streaking down the grayish skin._

_Castiel tilts his head upwards as Bobby glances around. Bending down to close Adam's eyes, Uriel's words slice at Dean. "You can be replaced." He should have said yes and stuck with it. Fingers digging into soft soil, locking his gaze away from the red circle in Adam's throat, Dean gathers his little brother, bracing himself for burning this young body once again. He tries not to think about Sam._

* * *

There's a loud crash and Dean glances up from a random book with no cover that he had found in the room. It's something about lions, white witches and Turkish delight. He stays rooted on the tiny nest of towels he made on the floor, weary of the rickety old bed-spring mattress.

Staggering footsteps echo through the abandoned house. Dean keeps his eyes fixed on the doorway, each breath shortening as his throat constricts. A thin shadow fills the doorway, the glimpse of a brown tip shoe peeking into the round circle of light coming from the only source in the room: the small green flashlight perched within Dean's hand.

Scrap of a shoe and Cas staggers into the circle, the brightness washing away shadows to reveal the dirt matted clothes, old ones Dean doesn't wear much anymore, and a floppy mess of dark hair wild from the wind and curling at the ends from the hotness of the clanking radiator.

The smell of alcohol spills out from the ex-angel as he shrugs his slumped body upwards, like a dead puppet or a soldier pushing himself onwards without any hope. Blurry blue eyes peek out from under the bangs, a dark mirth shining them as a dead smirk tugs at the chapped lips. A hoarse, barely comprehensible gruff snipes, "Hello, Dean."

* * *

_Cas screams. It never ends. And it's not like Sam's pain-filled ones during detox. No, these screams have no description, no comparison except maybe a few in the Pit. They're inhuman to describe the least._

_The ex-angel is trashing on the cold cement floor, underneath the devil's trap while the fan above is at a total stand still. Dean barely hears Bobby upstairs, banging away at the cabinets, trying to make a brew for Cas' sore throat when his voice finally gives out. Dean shifts his legs to spread out, the pain of his tail bone not dulling in the least but it makes Cas's body fit more securely against his. As strange as it might be, he doesn't want the screaming to stop, doesn't want to think how he'll never hear the gruff voice or the various degrees Cas says his name. Tones that scare him, anger him, make him grin and a few that soothe his soul and send shivers running down his spine._

_He's lost in a memory. Where Cas is speaking, close enough for Dean to feel the heat, the softness of the damn trench coat and the sizzling exotic whispers against his cheek. All the while, hot tears soak his sleeves, a flexible back arching up against his chest, body seizing up, fingers clawing at the empty air while bare feet kick at steady booted ones. Crazed eyes scream along with the dying voice, swearing words and snarls in an array of languages weaving in and out like a lost transmission before the agony swallows him in silence._

_Cold water splashes against the red-fever tinged face. Sniffing, Dean can't stop the tears from falling as he gazes down, lost in the sea blue, pleading and praying without his mouth opening once. He and Cas were always above such trivialities like words and language. So, he speaks in a different manner, eyes and hands doing everything his voice cannot._

_He clings to that sweat-soaked body, arms locked around the scarred chest, pinning the arms to make sure Cas doesn't try and do something stupid like kill himself._

_Bobby trudges into the room, locking it shut behind him. Crouching down he places a damp rag on Cas's forehead. "A kid tore down New York City a few days ago. From the description; it sounds like Jesse, the Antichrist...guess Sa-Lucifer found him and convinced him to join his little group."_

_Dean merely closes his eyes, the stream of tears now turning into a river. He wants to grieve for all those lost, for thinking that maybe he should have backed Cas in killing Jesse. But he can't. He bows his body till he can rest his forehead against the choking sobs of someone whose a friend, but more. The weight of Bobby's hand is a source of comfort and strength as he starts to caress Cas' wet hair. His other reaches out and grasps the trembling hand, squeezing it tightly. Millions of miles away on a celestial plane, the extermination of the Host of Heaven continues._

* * *

Dean flips the book closed, the last image being of a world called Narnia crumbling apart, the darkness and evil creatures pouring out like oil. Pushing himself up off the floor, joints creaking, fingers brushing the bottle next to him, he smirks dully back. "Cas."

The scoff is nothing new as the other man eyes the abandoned book. "Never pictured you the reading type."

"Never pictured you the partying type."

A slimy grin snakes its way over that familiar face, "Touché, then again, it is the end of the world, so why not bang a few gourds and go out swinging."

Dean swallows back the bile, struggling to keep the smirk in place. Instead of taking in the twisted bitter despair expression morphing Cas' face, he merely watches as long fingers climb their way upwards to try and shake off the rag of a trench coat. "Leave it on."

Cas pauses and cocks an eyebrow, "Why?" Then there's a cold huff of laughter, "Want to take it off yourself?"

Not trusting himself entirely, Dean places the half bottle of Jack on the table. "Old times sake."

"Oh?" That trace of innocence peeks out and for a split second, the eyes clear with curiosity and glowing with an inner light.

Dean walks by, playfully smacking his shoulder against Cas's bony one. Not like there is much difference, they're both skinny, losing precious weight when the plagues came and destroyed most of the crops. But there's still hope, Dean tells himself. The soil is still healthy enough. Proof in the small strawberry plant he came across in the garden out back, a precious red berry gleaming like a jewel in the yellowish haze of the day. He still has time to fix this.

He pauses at the door, uncertain of what Cas will do, what he's even thinking. It's become tougher to decipher meanings and glances when the man's drinking himself into an early grave. The creaking of the floor boards and the ghost of a warm breath against his throat is enough to know that Cas still trusts him.

"I'll just wait here then." Then there's a brush of cold air and Dean hears the scrapping of a bottle. Closing his eyes, he turns the corner where Cas had just came to grab something from his duffle bag.

* * *

_Dean finds Cas hunched in the corner of the kitchen, brow pinched in pure concentration. The fallen angel has been roaming about the house for the past two weeks, muttering wordlessly. He looks small, a ghost of his former self in a worn out pair of jeans and a large oversized tee-shirt with a faded football team logo on it. The shoulders slump as Cas is sitting absolutely still in a crouched position, bare toes curling in on themselves._

_Walking over, Dean shuts off the radio interrupting the news about Las Vegas getting swallowed up by a sandstorm. There have also been reports about people getting violent. It seems the Croatoan virus is coming back. Guess Pestilence had a back-up warehouse or Lucifer might have snapped it back into existence. The whys aren't that important anymore._

_Crouching downward, Dean takes in the long finger poking methodically at a dead cockroach. Tickling his ear, Cas is hissing in Enochian, lost in the chant. One night when Cas was lucid enough, he whimpered how devils visit him in his dreams. Of how the nightmares and ghosts of the dead hurl insults and torture him till he's nothing. Then Lucifer comes and frees him from the pain, asking him join him with the friendly grin of Sam to seal the deal._

_Each time, Cas screams no and runs out into the back lot, climbs a tree and sits there till Bobby can coax him down. It's those instances where Dean feels the weight of how he's cursed the angel, when Cas won't talk or look at him except that one hate filled glare when Dean had come out to visit. He doesn't do that anymore._

_The bug's legs twitch and a faint glimmer of mad hope blazes behind pained eyes. Cas stops, waiting for the cockroach to come back alive. But nothing happens and the hope flirts away._

_Resting a hand gently on Cas' back, Dean bites back a witty retort at how cold he is. "Hungry?" comes out as a rasp._

_Cas turns, staring up at him, broken glass shards as his eyes. The finger rises as he leans closer to the warmth. Lowering his sight, Cas traces Dean's lips with the finger, soft air washing over Dean's face. "I give to thee, the breath of life."_

_Dean doesn't know where it comes from, but as Cas's finger reaches the little dip of his lip, he gives it a light kiss. The finger stops and warms under his mouth. "Cas, come back, man…please…"_

_Blue eyes drag upwards, locking onto green. And Dean feels his heart thump loudly as recognition flickers to life. The finger bends, catching on his lower lip as Cas leans further in, his own lips a few inches away. Dean can't look or pull away. All he can do is lick his lips, tasting the cold sweat on the finger. He feels as if they've been here before, except it was dark and tight with the foul stench of a rotting corpse._

_The front door slams open, crashing hard into the wall. Dean collapses hard onto the ground, arms flying backwards to hold himself up as he twists to see the rushing figure of Rufus come halting in the kitchen doorframe._

_The older hunter is panting, the hot air of summer spilling into the room. "Where's Bobby?" he snaps loudly._

_Swallowing, Dean nods towards the back door, "Out back. What's going on?"_

_"I'm going out on a date, what the hell do you think is going on!" Then Rufus is gone in a flurry of clothes, the back door slamming open with his booming voice echoing, "Demons!"_

_Dean snaps into action, pulling himself up to get off the floor. He twists to grab Cas' arm when he stops. Cas is staring back at the dead cockroach, but he's no longer reaching for it. Instead, there's blankness on his face. "Cas?"_

_Cas blinks and looks back at him, "I'm cold."_

_Dean chuckles with relief as he grabs the arm and hauls them both on their feet. "Well, that's about to change." The soft hmph is enough to warrant a smile on his lips, even if it doesn't reach his eyes._

* * *

Dean walks back into the room, fidgeting his shoulders. Everything's the same, except Cas tossed off his coat, the bundle flung over the rotting recliner. He's peering out of the barred window, taking mindless sips of the whisky watching the scenery with half-draped eyes, his boot tapping irregularly against the battered carpet.

"Not in the mood for killing Croats, I see," he slurs out.

"I got something else in mind," Dean responds carefully.

Cas turns his head slightly to peer over his shoulder; the dim light a step above pure darkness outlining the sharp cheekbone. There's a dark flash of a grin, nothing teasing but full of bitter disappointment. "Going back to your roots from down under?"

Sometimes Dean wants to know where Cas picks up these sayings considering TV hasn't been working for almost a year. "You could say that."

* * *

_Since helping with Rufus, Dean and Bobby have given Cas a crash course in hunting. Bobby said the fallen angel had a knack for surveillance and firearms. It surprises him when after a few days of practice, Cas shoots perfectly into cans. Yet, his hand to hand combat needs working. But Dean can't because every time he presses hard against Cas, locking those arms behind his back, forcing Cas to try and break free, the thick soft brush of hair, the smell of his soap, the scratch of whiskers, the-_

_Cas is fidgeting next to him, hovering close to his side as he eyes outside. If there's one thing, Cas doesn't like it's crowds. Something with how he doesn't like how others look at him like he's different. And yes he is, but to Dean, he's Cas and no one looks at him as if he's some shape-shifter or demon._

_A flash of silver catches Dean's eye. Glancing down, he watches spellbound as long, nimble fingers conduct a waltz with a knife. If there's one thing that comes out of the training, it is that Cas is an expert blade fighter. Whether it's a machete, sword or a switchblade, it's as almost as if the blade is an extension of him. It scares and excites Dean._

_The pair quietly stalk up the stairs. Dead silence hangs thick around the scrap yard, not a single bird chirping. Dean flicks a glance over his shoulder, Cas giving a slight pinch to the eyes. Bracing his shoulders, Dean rears back and kicks down the door._

_He rushes in, ready to kill any of the infected zombies blocking his way to Bobby. He skids into the study and freezes at what he finds. Three bodies are strewn on the floor, pasting loose paper and blood like some grotesque collage. And perched above them, slouched in his wheelchair is Bobby._

_"Bobby?" whispers Dean, his instincts kicking in to reach out for him, but Cas' hand locks onto his shoulder holding him back. The older hunter is covered in blood and the deep cut on his arm is as clear as day._

_The brim of the cap moves and a groan rumbles from the chair. Bobby tilts his head upwards, the shaking in his arms and sweat dripping down his face all the signs they need to know. Those old eyes speak everything and Dean just wants to scream. He can't do it, not to Bobby, not to this man he considers his father. Shaking his head a resolutely no, Bobby smiles weakly at him, not once breaking his gaze while Dean feels movement from behind. There's undiluted love shining as Bobby says, "Go get 'em, ya idjit.'_

_Then a shot rings out. Bobby slams hard into the leather backing, eyes rolling upwards before sliding forever closed, hands dropping at his side. Dean can't move as the smoking pistol in Cas's hand lowers._

_"We-we need to get moving."_

_He doesn't know who said it. The floorboards creek and soon Cas is a flutter of motions as he grabs necessary items from the room and house. Dean glances at the fireplace, spotting the embalmed cover plate. He grabs Dad's journal, stuffs the picture they took at the camp from the desk into the pages before sliding open the hiden compartment and sealing it shut._

_The dance is the same, the steps slightly different. That night, Cas drinks hard and fast and Dean joins him in the drowning._

* * *

There's a soft laugh, a laugh Dean once heard once upon a time. It's a laugh of when times, despite being rough, are now sweet and golden. He yearns for those days, those times where he was a bit eager to solve the puzzle that was Castiel, Nerdy Badass Angel of the Lord.

Staggering slightly backwards, Cas weaves his way into Dean's personal space, tilting forward, angling so his hot breath caresses his neck. "You're standing differently, wish to stab me again?" There's a dark joking tone, tickling the fine hairs all along Dean's neck and hair making him shiver. "Or how about another punch to the face or a chest full of rock salt to stop me?"

Dean swallows, flickering his gaze down to the stream of light splashing against muted brown fabric. "You still trust me?"

A brush of lips, "Yes."

Turning, Dean grips hard at the other man's hips, tilting his head to brush his own lips against the sweating skin earning a chocked moan. "Well I don't."

* * *

_They occasional visit the camp, Cas tagging along, efficient and cold as always like when he was a smiting happy angel. The few demons they meet along the way stay far enough away, as if they smell him for what he once was. They taunt and call him names, but never go after him. It seems Lucifer wants to preserve his little brother._

_And after every encounter, Cas drinks like he is still an angel, burying all his guilt in the only way he knows how. And Dean catches the flashes of movement when the ex-angel thinks he's not looking to pop a few pills. He says it's for the headaches and nightmares._

_Reading between the lines, Dean knows Cas will never fully recover from the death of his entire family, hell he hasn't. It doesn't help when Cas whispers one drunken night, that Lucifer continues to dangle the hook of temptation in his dreams._

_Dean asks why Cas doesn't take it, and the reply is simple. "I promised Sam I would look out for you." There's a hidden, unspoken desire behind the words. Dean hears it, knows what it means but forces himself to ignore it. He has to, to survive_.

* * *

It takes all his restraint not to mouth that neck even further, to lick and bit and bruise till he makes a claim. To push his hands underneath that threadbare shirt and run his hands up the lithe chest, fingering scars he remembers patching up. To thrust up against the leg thats sneaking between his own, to grind and cup and-

Dean pushes away, heaving a deep breath as Cas cackles, actually cackles like a goddamn cracked villain. Tilting his head back, Cas drains the rest of the bottle, throwing it with a snap of wrist hard into the wall. The shattering of glass jerks Dean like a bucket of ice water.

"You know what, screw you Dean." Castiel lip curls in rage, sweat pasting dark bangs against his forehead, breaths coming in hard pants. "I've had it with your" he raises shaking hands and bends two pairs of fingers as quotations, "fearless attitude, your arrogant streak just to name a few. You want to go torture, go ahead. I don't need to save you because you as sure as hell don't want saving from yourself."

Cas takes a staggering step forward, swaying hard. Shaking his head, he wipes the sweat and blinks to clear his clouding eyes. "I know I promised Sam, promised Bobby, but I can't do it. Not anymore. Not where we keep treading this line because I'm tired of it, Dean. All these head games!" He shouts near the end, but it's not the high-pitch shout of a human. It's the low roar, a shadow of the angel he used to be.

Dean licks his lips, trying to keep his face neutral. Because he needs this anger, this break in their relationship to do what he needs to do. Cas narrows his eyes, fingers curling into fists and Dean finds himself praying that the ex-angel does carry out the punch. Instead, Cas pitches forward, landing hard on his knees, hands splaying out to catch him before face-planting into the ground.

* * *

_Three years have passed and it's becoming the future Dean wants to avoid. Lucifer is wearing Sam, Bobby is dead, angels are gone and Cas is falling into liquor and drugs._

_And when they can't find the liquor and drugs, Cas speaks in tongues. He's lost and delirious, sliding back towards insanity, the shell shock rocking his body. Sometimes, if it's real bad, Cas claws at his back, drawing blood, yelling at Dean to cut them off because they're rotting away._

_It's those times; Dean does the only thing he knows how. He holds Cas close, cards his fingers through the soaked hair. Rubs circles into that shaking skin, runs hands down the boney spine and tells sweet lies into an ear hidden behind thick raven hair. Cas curls deeper into him, tears soaking his shirt and they lie on a bed-bug ridden mattress till the sun rises. Afterwards, it is not uncommon for them to sleep together to keep the nightmares away and stay warm. Neither want to mention how sometimes, the brief touches or accidental entanglement of limbs whispers at hidden desires._

_It isn't till Dean's half out of his mind with worry that when he finds Cas laying in an open field, drugged eyes staring longingly up at the fiery red sunset that he knows he's crossed a line._

* * *

"You-you drugged," Cas gasps out, snapping heated eyes up at Dean.

Dean eases downwards, pushing Cas gently onto his back before straddling his hips. "I had to," the hunter whispers, fixing sorrowful eyes onto the blue. "Otherwise, you'd fight me." He runs a shaking hand through familiar hair, eyes taking in each stubble and wrinkle as Cas fights to blink his eyes clear, clammy hands clawing up his back. "Remember that story Risa told the kids one time; the true story of the Little Mermaid."

Confusion tightens that face and Dean chocks back a sob of relief at the faint tilt of the head. Smiling, he leans forward, brushing his nose against the stubble cheek relishing the slight burn. Inhaling the smoke, sweat, alcohol and something pure, Dean snakes his right hand behind his back to grab the handle of the item he searched for. "Remember we thought it was stupid of the mermaid to kill herself instead of the Prince, that she should have found another way to go back to being a mermaid and go home…to end her suffering."

Realization dawns in those blue eyes, pushing back the cloud of poison from his eyes. Dean straightens out, rising his right hand above his head, the glint of silver caught in the faint beam. "Well, I found the other way, Cas. I'm letting you go home, go back to being an-" He chokes out, "an angel." Hardening his eyes, Dean drives forward, not stopping till he feels the angelic blade slam into the hard wood beneath them and hears a gurgled gasp. "I'm ending it, Cas."

The ex-angel bucks hard, mouth trying to say something but all that comes out is blood, painting that smooth perfect face red. Dean runs his fingers over Cas' mouth, smearing the blood around his mouth and jaw. "Sssh, sssh," he rattles out as he twists the blade free from the wood.

Agony arches Cas's body against Dean's, a dark opposite to what Dean desired in picturing Cas arching against him, head thrown back, black hair rumpled and wild. "I got you, Cas, I got you. Don't worry," He doesn't know where the words are coming from, just that they fall out like the ramblings of the insane. "I'm saving you this time. I'm taking you out of this Hell."

It's the crazed rationalization Dean's been building in his head since that day in the field, to convince him that he has to do this. To commit this one act so Cas doesn't become some drug hippie with his orgies and dies in a stupid, suicidal mission. "You're going home, alright. Heaven and angels go hand in hand, no more suffering, no more nothing but peace. It's what you said, peace or suffering. Well, you chose right that time back in the Green Room. You'll be at peace Cas, with Sam and Bobby and Ellen and Jo and Anna and all your brothers and sisters."

With a yank, Dean pulls out the sword, laying the crimson blade next to them. He doesn't look at the perfect size hole or the tiny river running down soaking into the AC/DC shirt. Instead, running hands upwards, he covers them in blood, cupping Cas' face in his palms. Lost green eyes watch as a red sea spills from underneath Cas, spreading outwards and fanning outwards amongst the cords of fabric and wood grain, a stark contrast of wings to the black shadows that graced a barn years ago.

Dean blinks long and hard before forcing himself to lock onto those windows of a creature he dared to befriend and love. He deserves it after all, to see the outcome of his action. A shaky grin flashes downward at the pale face, the body beneath him soft and limp, no longer fighting against him. "You deserve to go out like a warrior, like the goddamn angel you are, not some drug addled human-"

A trembling cool hand runs up his cheek, fingers etching out his lip, nose and eye. "D-ean."

It took that one syllable from Cas to break through all his barriers. Collapsing, Dean can't hold it back anymore. Lying flush, feeling the blood seep into his own clothing, he rests his forehead on Cas's own. "You deserve-"

Then Cas chuckles, his weakening body trembling underneath him, "Y-still, don't think you de-serve to be s-saved." And it's there, front and center. Dean forces himself to pull back slightly to take in the entire scene. There's no fear or anger present, just that angelic understanding and resolution he saw once in Chuck's house.

"Cas?" He's back; his angel is back and in his arms for the first time since the heavenly massacre. Dean feels his lips curl and he's about to snap back to curse and say that surely this crosses the line, instead it comes out as "I-I lo-" but Cas tilts upwards, somehow finds the energy, that stubborn son of a bitch, and seals their lips together.

It's chaste. Too one-sided and brief to be considered a true kiss. But it leaves Dean stunned, a single tear breaking free. Cas looks up at him with those sky blue eyes that are not plagued by alcohol or madness. It's a gaze of an angel who's finally gathering the strength to come back. Dean watches as the ex-angel struggles with pale lips to form words, to completely show his forgiveness and love. But panic sets in as his heart ticks slower, breaths shortening heave after heave freezing the emotions in their tracks from coming out of his mouth or shine in his eyes. Cas can't leave yet, not without Dean going first, without knowing that he's forgiven. He can't go without telling Dean he lov—

Dean watches as the light fades, leaving behind glass marbles, the hand cupping his cheek dropping with a loud thump. The startling sound rattles his body, shaking free the dangling tears on his eyelashes. They don't stop falling, long after the echo disappears. Lowering back down, Dean curls up against Cas's body, kissing the cooling lips before burying his face into the neck, clinging hard to the scent and taste that was uniquely Cas. In the darkness, he confesses everything to an empty vessel, fingers wrapping themselves over longer ones reveling in all the touches he denied mere minutes ago.

It's how their brothers find them, with crackling lighting, shaking shingles and a rain of window glass. Sam's hazel eyes flash dark with grief before Lucifer's anger tears away at the walls. Dean pushes himself away, rising onto shaky feet, front all covered in blood. His crimson tip fingers drag against the floor, grabbing the drenched sword.

"I'll make sure you suffer long and hard, Dean. You think Alistair and the Pit were bad. They are nothing compared to me," sneers Lucifer as if Cas's death as a brother is the reason for his grief instead of him no longer having a play toy.

Dead green eyes drag themselves to look upon the creature that wears his brother's face. Before Dean knew he wouldn't be able to do this, but now. Now, he has nothing. He's just an empty shell that is his future, no correction, present self. Fingers closing tightly, Dean lets his lips harden, darkening his features.

Lucifer eyes the blade, a smug look on his face, "Please, you really think you can kill me with that?"

When it's over, there is nothing remaining of the house except for wing-shaped jagged mounds and a burnt field. It's the same dance, similar steps to that of 2014, but the finale was different. The Apocalypse came and saw, but didn't conquer.

* * *

**_There are no bones to burn. Not even voodoo bags buried in the ground, at the rough estimation of the corners of where a house used to be don't work. The ghost is too strong, too stubborn to let go and listen to the words yelled at him. At the beginning, hunters try to take him out the old fashion way. But this ghost knows their ways._**

**_By trial and error, the hunters quickly gather the ghost is of some hunter. But who remains a mystery for the ghost's appearance is unrecognizable. Remains of a standard jacket, shirt and jeans are burnt over the mangled flesh where feet and hands are dripping constantly in blood. Disheveled hair gives the ghost a wild look, one eye black, the other a jaded green that's rimmed white peeking through._**

**_He's a victim of the blast that occurred in the area. If the signs of worn down mounds that take the shape of wings mean anything; the nature might be of the angelic kind. Crouched on the ground as if he's hunched over some long forgotten body, murmuring things and caressing the air like a lost lover, the ghost remains till someone crosses an invisible threshold. Then it's as if a switch is flipped and he rises, loathing, pain and hatred at everything sealing the poor fool's fate._**

**_The ghost doesn't say much, just screams and snarls, threatening the new comers. They're the enemy to him, nothing more, nothing else. When words do fall out, they're the names of Lilith, Alistair, Azazel, Lucifer and Dean. Dragging sliced feet, his body morphs into a burnt creature of black scales and shattered glass for eyes, teeth and ears. Then there's a flicker and he's back to his final appearance, the time loop shredding his soul even more._**

**_But there was one time the loop broke. A man named Chuck and a woman called Risa visited the site. For the first time, the ghost replied saying it doesn't want to leave, it can't. It doesn't belong in Heaven for the sin he's committed and like Hell is he returning back to the Pit. He's staying here on Earth, no matter what._**

_**"I killed him!" screeched the ghost, his grief and rage sending flames outwards but not an ounce of grass is burnt. "I deserve this; there is no rest for a monster like me!"**_

_**Then the ghost does something that makes him unique. The long blade, or sword some call it, materializes in his hand and he rushes forward. No one makes it out alive except for the tiny rectangle video tape that is half-melted.**_

**_It takes the death of 13 hunters before they beg officials to close the road. Yes, the ghost only haunts the field, but he's strong enough to draw victims in just by driving by. That's all it takes for officials sign the paper and soon the only ones daring to travel down that road are the suicides or some stupid teenage dare._**

_**It becomes a haunted, unholy place, something to be feared and whispered into myth. If only they knew...**_


End file.
